


busted lip syndrome

by whalejuice



Category: Dead by Daylight (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Canon-Typical Violence, F/M, Knifeplay, Non-Consensual Kissing, Possessive Behavior, Soulmate-Identifying Marks, Stalking, because it's danny, it's danny and his camera against literally everyone else, of course there's gonna be knife play
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-04
Updated: 2021-03-04
Packaged: 2021-03-17 12:14:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,921
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29841357
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whalejuice/pseuds/whalejuice
Summary: One of the women from The Legion stares at the words on your hip, marred by broken skin that has been sliced open by none other than her own blade, which she now held in a limp grip. You know what she’s thinking; what you had thought when you first came here.Soulmate marks aren’t supposed to exist in this place.Before you lost your nerve, you asked her if she recognised the name.Danny Johnson.She says yes.And she tells you to run.
Relationships: Danny "Jed Olsen" Johnson | The Ghost Face/Reader, Danny "Jed Olsen" Johnson | The Ghost Face/You
Comments: 8
Kudos: 120





	busted lip syndrome

When you first arrived, you were dealt an unimaginable blow that every survivor had to deal with. The Entity removes all traces of hope when you enter its realm, and that includes soulmate marks.

You were devastated when you first found out. The prospect of being stuck in an infinite loop of sacrifice and suffering by the hands of various killers was nothing compared to the pain of realising your soulmate was gone. It was more real, in a way. More believable. Easier to digest and understand.

And you understood. You understood well.

You had cried when your fellow survivors first told you. You’d sat on a log with a fire that crackled comfortingly nearby and sobbed, face in your hands, as a woman named Claudette rubbed her hand along your back, shushing you in soft, gentle whispers. There was a warmth there you couldn’t deny, and welcomed her motherly embrace which oozed a comfort you’d thought long gone.

They tried to help you in their own way, understanding your struggle because they had all experienced it too. Each of them had taken a seat around the campfire and shared stories of their own soulmates, their expression grim yet relieved when they said they’d never met them. When you had asked why, their answers had been distinctly simple. They couldn’t miss what they’d never had. The loss of their soulmate was still twinged with hurt and pain and _unfairness,_ but it was lessened by the fact they’d never known them. There was a deep sorrow there when they said that; one that drew them together in solidarity.

“Our soulmates aren’t here to suffer with us,” Kate had said, her lips pulling up in a gentle smile that was clearly forced, done out of an obligation to comfort you more than experiencing any real joy. You couldn’t blame her. “We have each other, and that’s enough.”

It’s supposed to comfort you, but it doesn’t.

Because that night, as you lie awake, staring at the night sky that never seems to turn to day, your hands drifting to your hip bone, you realise something.

Your soulmate’s name still remains.

And your stomach plummets to the floor.

* * *

“You haven’t gone against Ghostface yet, have you?”   
  
You jump in fright as Nea kneels down next to you and sticks her hands into the generator you’d been working on, wiping her bloody hands on the wires. Claudette had gone down earlier, and you guessed it had been Nea to get her going again.

“...No,” you answered, swallowing nervously. You hadn’t been in a chase yet this trial, focusing on getting generators done. This was your third, and you felt a strange sense of pride in that. “I haven’t.”   
  
That wasn’t a good answer, of course. Not that you could control it. But having not gone against a killer before meant uncertainty of what to expect, not knowing what they were like, not knowing how to predict their next move. Not knowing meant performing badly. And performing badly meant letting the others down.

And with the lives of other survivors on the line, the stakes were too high to let your team down. Even if they always came back.

“You remember what Dwight told you?”   
  
“Um…” you began, forcing yourself to think, juggling your focus between both the generator and recollecting what he had told you when you first arrived. There had been so much information you’d had to absorb within only a few hours, and the end result was you now struggling to recall it all. “He’s like Michael Myers?”   
  
“Kinda,” Nea answered, the flickering sparks of the generator illuminating her face, full of sharp lines and angles. “He’s hard to see coming, so keep your eyes out. Wears all black, the fucker.”

Silence stretched between them after that. Once, during your first trial, which felt so long ago now, you’d found it suffocating, the anticipation of a knife plunging into your shoulder from the shadows forcing you to quiver with unparalleled fear. There was no getting used to that fear, you realised, but it was easier to face when it became your reality. One you were forced to live over and over and over again.

“Motherfucker!” Nea swore as the generator blew up in your faces. Whether she’d been the cause of it or you had, you didn’t know. “Go!”

You scrambled up, hard dirt chafing your knees, not understanding but still obeying. Nea, like most of the other experienced survivors, was careful and precise. Not so easily caught off guard, now unrelentingly unflinching after being exposed to both meathook and mori alike. If something had spooked her, then…

You realised it as you heard the rustle of fabric behind you, boots crunching on hard dirt. They’re coming for you, and they’re coming fast.

You don’t look. Looking is wasting time. Instead, you force your body to spring into action, hot air and dust rushing past your face as you push yourself forward, arms shoving your body away from the generator, and more importantly, away from the killer. Don’t look back, you tell yourself. Don’t look back, don’t look back, don’t look back —

You look back.

For a moment, you feel relief, in a way. There is no mask made of human skin or a gaping open mouth that holds molten orange liquid or even a towering height that makes you feel so, incredibly small. Whatever horrors the Ghostface’s appearance may hold, it’s hidden behind layers of cloth and plastic. If anything, it makes him look all the more human. There are no spikes protruding from his shoulders and his appearance isn’t ghastly or particularly terrifying. Even his mask looks like something from a Halloween shop; cartoonish, in a way, and that fact feels almost mocking. As though that was a deliberate move on his part. The only aspect to him that seems particularly odd is the straps that snake around him weightlessly, and you might’ve thought he was floating if not for the fact you could see his boots on the earth beneath him, crunching on their way forward to you. 

But all the same, you feel terror grip your pattering heart, because for all the acknowledgement that he seems human, you also cannot ignore the knife he has raised above him, the metal glinting in the lowering sun of the Dead Dawg Saloon.

In the distance, the sound of a generator being completed rings out, music to your ears that are so tired of hearing terrified screams. It brings a sense of hope to your hurried movements, dwindling as the red glow of the killer creeps up from behind you. Your legs burn and you feel a sharp pain in your side as a stitch sneaks up on you, but slowing down isn’t an option. Stopping isn’t an option.

Not anymore.

Hope has no place here, you had quickly realised when you arrived in this dreadful, grim place that seems an odd mix between hell and purgatory. As fast as it came, it was gone  — thrust away from you as the knife of a killer plunged into your shoulder, just like right now.

You cried out as you felt hot liquid seep through your shirt, rushing down your shoulder as the killer pulled his knife free from muscle and skin alike. From behind your shoulder, you watched in horror as he wiped the blade clean with his fingers, your blood dripping down his leather glove.

There’s an awful moment where you pause entirely, the muscles in your legs seizing and forcing you to the ground, despite the fact the wound is in your shoulder and not your leg. You realise your mistake after it’s too late, and curse yourself. You feel like the idiot side character in a slasher movie that’s more gore than any real horror; the one that freezes in terror and lets the killer slaughter them as the audience screams at their screen for them to do something.

Ghostface, of course, seizes the opportunity, strolling forward with a gait that is distinctly predatory and mocking. The crunch of his combat boots grows louder with each step, and you can only squeeze your eyes shut in terrorised anticipation for what you know comes next. 

_ Meathook in your shoulder, piercing through flesh and muscles and bone, a scream rippling through your throat until all that is left is hollow acceptance, hanging like you’re the prize of a butcher’s shop— _

But it never comes.

Because in that moment, the final generator rings out, and triumph rattles your bones.

There’s a deep sense of pride in knowing you’ve done something useful for the rest of your team. That you’d played an integral role to their escape. Distracting the killer was as important as doing generators, Nea had once argued to you; wasting their time and relieving pressure was the key in making an escape when they were playing on borrowed time. They could only take so many hooks before the Entity consumed them, she said. So burying time was a necessary game to play. A dangerous one that was all the more rewarding.

At the time, you hadn’t understood how she could think that way. How she could willingly put herself in danger’s way with a grin on her face, clicking her flashlight to bait the killer to chase her, begging for their frustration and anger to be taken out on her. She enjoyed it, she said. Satisfaction was a hard thing to come by when you were the one left hanging, so she had to take it where she could. And there was nothing more satisfying than knowing you’d wasted their time long enough to let the others escape. It was altruism in its most dangerous form.

It was there that you felt it; that precise moment in time. The triumph and victory and satisfaction seeping through your pores, sweetening the blood in your mouth from when you’d bitten your lip during your fall. It felt good. Good enough that maybe, just maybe, the hook you’d suffer for it would be worth it.

This is what Nea had been talking about, you now realised. This is what she meant, you now realised. Even if it’d only been for a few minutes, you’d outlasted the timer that clicked down to the doom of yourself and your team. Now, all that was left was the exit gates.

Standing above you, Ghostface seemed to take a moment, unrushed and seemingly unbothered despite the fact the exit gates were probably being powered with each passing second. He tilted his head at you; an animated movement, one that struck you as more for show than anything else. 

He was studying you, you realised as you watched his mask tilt down, roaming down your body. You felt strangely exposed despite the fact you were covered rather nicely by your outfit, provided kindly by the Entity when you had first arrived. As the seconds ticked by, you felt the strange urge to cover yourself, but didn’t dare move, afraid of reliving the feeling of his knife piercing your skin once more. With each breath your chest heaved, but that was all that you were brave enough to dare.

You flinched as he leaned down to pick you up, but Ghostface seemed to pay it no mind. Instead of feeling arms hauling you up, you felt cold air brush against your face as something cold and metallic tapped your cheek, leaving a dampness there that you knew wasn’t tears. Slowly, hesitantly, fearfully, you peeked an eye open, heart hammering and chest seizing, horrified to find the killer kneeling by you, closer than any other had ever gotten, peering at you as he wiped his knife on your cheek. Wiped the blood - your blood - on your cheek.

Your mouth fell open in shock, disgust marring your expression. He was toying with you, you realised. Instead of chasing the others down and hindering their escape, he remained here with you, playing with you like he would his food. 

Seeing the opportunity of your open-mouthed expression, Ghostface let the tip of his knife scrape against the skin of your cheek to your lips, pressing against your mouth. Your lungs seized in horror at the action, your thoughts going haywire as the implications roamed around your skull while the blade pressed against your busted lip, forcing the wound open once more. Your tongue, he was going to take your tongue, he was going to cut your tongue off—

“Please,” you begged, because what else could you do? Blood dribbling down the corner of your mouth, you shivered as you whispered, “Please don’t.”

There was a pause, his knife stilling against your lips as he seemed to deliberate your request. Hope blossomed in your chest, but it left as quick as it came when you felt his knife scrape against your teeth. It dawned upon you at that moment that his pause wasn’t him debating giving in to your request or not — he had been mocking you, giving you a false sense of hope, wanting to watch as he stole it away. You didn’t know how you knew, but you did. You felt confident in that, like how you knew the moon would never fall in this place. 

Frustration rocked inside you like a tidal wave, crashing against your ribcage and hammering heart. Something like anger must’ve crossed your expression, because Ghostface’s movements stilled for a moment, pausing. There was a brief moment of simplistic silence as he reached into his robes for something, the rustle of fabric jostling you into a newfound fear of the unknown. Whatever he was getting, you didn’t know, and you didn’t like that.

You might’ve found a rare sense of bravery and bucked yourself up, forcing him off you, were it not for the fact his knife remained in your mouth, threatening to cut your tongue at the slightest wrong move. It shackled you to your exact position, forced to remain still as Ghostface seemed to find what he wanted. Holding it up, you barely even got to see what he was holding in front of his face before a flash of white blinded you, then another. 

A camera, you realised with clarity. He was taking _pictures._

Your face heated with humiliation, hot and heavy and hounding at you to do something. But you didn’t. You remained motionless, allowing him to do what he wanted, your satisfaction and joy from your earlier victory long gone. He was showing you your place, you now understood, and you remained hopeless to stop it. Angry, frustrated tears welled in your eyes, forcing you to swallow them down around the knife in your mouth.

You could’ve sworn that from behind his mask, Ghostface let out a satisfied laugh.

Slowly but not gently, after agonising seconds of exploring your mouth and snapping picture after picture, he removed the blade and ran it down to the corner of your mouth, collecting the blood that had spilled from there. 

With one final blinding snapshot, you squeezed your eyes shut in a sad attempt to regain your vision while Ghostface finally, almost mercifully, hoisted you up and threw you over his shoulder with a surprising strength. You let out a small noise as he jostled you slightly, carrying you towards what you assumed was the nearest hook. You almost welcomed it, in a way. In just a few minutes, Ghostface had managed to make what was supposed to be a normal trial a nightmare, spiralling you into a state of uncertainty as his unpredictability got the better of you. 

It’ll come soon, you tell yourself. The hook will pierce your shoulder and you’ll hang there limply, helpless to do anything until a fellow survivor comes to get you. Ghostface will leave to find his next victim, and then, you might finally find some relief in the fact he’s away from you.

Except that doesn’t come.

Instead, someone calls your name — and Ghostface stops entirely. 

You, like he had only minutes ago, seize the unexpected opportunity, and start wiggling for dear life, hands and arms flailing this way and that as you struggle to get free. Not even that spurs the killer back into action, who instead turns to face none other than Nea, flashlight in a white-knuckled grip. You realise what she’s doing the moment you see it, the beam of it flickering past your face as she tries to blind Ghostface with it. You don’t understand why he’s stopped moving, why he’s not avoiding her attempts to free you, not when the hook is right there, but you don’t question it. Don’t allow yourself to become distracted at this golden opportunity as Ghostface simply stands there while Nea’s flashlight illuminates his mask, paused like someone has flicked a switch on him.

On his shoulder, you feel his muscles tense, and you yell out in frustration as you realise he’s finally snapped out of whatever reverie he’d been put in and is about to start moving again, but he takes no steps towards the hook. Instead, the arm that held you to his shoulder lowered, dropping you to the ground where you landed with a choked sound, groaning in pain as your ribs flared painfully. 

Muscles aching and hands stinging from trying to break your fall, you managed to push yourself up just in time to watch Ghostface’s black combat boots step past you, pausing for the briefest moment. You blinked in confusion as the killer sent one final glance to you from behind his shoulder, something there being communicated you didn’t quite understand. You wondered if maybe he’d changed his mind; would come back and throw you on the meathook. He had the perfect opportunity to.

But he didn’t. Instead, he turned away and stalked off to chase Nea, who clicked her flashlight at him in a clear challenge.

For a long, agonising moment, you remained like that, lying in the dirt as you struggled to understand what had just occurred. You barely even made an effort to push yourself up from the ground, your head spiralling as you desperately tried to figure out the why behind his actions. He’d had the perfect chance to hook you; Nea had managed to distract him for a few moments, sure, but he still had plenty of time to throw you on a hook. So why? Why had he—

“We have to get out of here,” a gentle voice startled you from your misplaced musings, soothing hands gripping your forearms and helping you up. You hissed as your shoulder protested in pain, sharp slashes of hurt trickling down to your arm. You looked up to your saviour, the dawning sunlight illuminating her features which were contorted in concern, hurriedly trying to tug you towards an exit gate.

“Claudette,” you said in realisation, blinking. “Why did Ghostface—”

“I don’t know,” she whispered in response. Clearly, she’d been watching. “He’s weird. Maybe Nea upset him. Got tunnel vision.”   
  
You slowly nodded, the ache in your shoulder easing as you pushed yourself forward, adrenaline pumping through your bloodstream as hope reignited your need to survive. In a motherly gesture that was distinctly Claudette-like, the woman held your hand as she led the way to the exit gates that loomed forward, beckoning them to their escape. Sweet relief burst in your mouth, replacing the coppery taste of blood you’d slowly gotten accustomed to as you both came to a halt.

“You’re here,” a male voice spoke. You blinked in surprise as Dwight stepped out from behind a metal pillar, hands wrung in clear worry. “Nea, where’s Nea?”   
  
“She’ll be here soon,” Claudette said with a certainty that eased your guilt somewhat. She’d taken Ghostface’s attention off you, and could potentially pay the price for it. “Have some faith, Dwight.”   


“You’re right, you’re right,” he sighed, running a hand through his hair while his glasses remained askew on his nose. “Oh, good work back there, by the way. You did good with the generators.”

You smiled through your struggle to regain your breath, your shoulder weeping in pain with each inhale. It felt nice to be recognised, felt nice to have played a part in their victory. Like you’d done something right. “Thanks—”

“What’re you all doing?! Go!”

The sudden shout of none other than the subject of their conversation had Dwight jumping five feet in the air in sheer fright, Claudette tensing, and you gasping. You all turned just in time to see Nea pass around the saloon, gripping her side for dear life as she sprinted right for them, Ghostface hot on her heels. It was easy to pinpoint the exact moment he realised he had lost, coming to a stop by the gates while Nea stumbled to them.

“Yeah, fuck you, asshole,” she huffed out, gasping for air as she clicked her flashlight at his mask. Even as blood seeped from her side, she still had the energy and willpower to taunt the killer. You envied her confidence, in a way. “Picking on the newest survivor. Fuck you!”

“Nea, stop,” Claudette soothed, gripping her arm as she tried to tug her away. “You’ll get facecamped in the next trial you have with him. Remember the Legion?”

“Like he’ll catch me. Slow bastard,” Nea sneered, wiping blood from her mouth when Ghostface gave no reaction or response. “I know you heard me, motherfucker.”

“Nea—”

“Alright, alright, yeah. C’mon, let’s get out of here.”

Not needing to be told twice, Claudette didn’t let go of the woman’s arm as she led her away, almost like she was scared Nea might run back and taunt Ghostface some more, until the endgame collapse took them both. Meanwhile, Dwight placed a firm but gentle hand on your shoulder — the good one, thankfully, as he tried to guide you away back to safety… or the closest you’d ever get to it, anyway.

You weren’t sure why you did it. You never looked back to the killer. There was no reasonable explanation to it, really. No need for it. You were free, safe from them until the next trial. There was no point in looking back.

But you did all the same. You looked behind your shoulder, and there he was, head tilted at you like it had been before. You didn’t really know if he was looking at you; the slots for eyes in his mask gave you no indication of who he was looking towards, just a gaping darkness that seemed cold and infinite and so very empty. But still, all the same, the hairs of the back of your neck stood up, and as a cold chill swept down your spine, you knew.

You felt like doing something. Felt like being brave and flipping the bird or childishly poking your tongue out at him, but you didn’t. You weren’t Nea, couldn’t avoid the consequences like her. Instead, all you could do was recall how cold his knife had felt in your mouth, and how he had pressed the tip so cruelly against your busted lip. 

Even if you did nothing, he did. You felt your bones rattle in a cold shiver once more as he raised a hand, black leather glove waving you goodbye. The gesture was oddly friendly; as though he was saying ‘see you next time.’

In that moment, you finally found your bravery — and raised a hand to mockingly wave back.

This time, you know for a fact that you heard him laugh. 

**Author's Note:**

> this is entirely TheWolfieAmongUs' fault for enabling me


End file.
